


Open Arms for Broken Hearts

by runsinthefamily



Series: Empty Arms [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, M/M, Multi, Smut, legacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:43:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Legacy, Anders and Garrett face the reality of every Grey Warden's end.</p><p>Oh, Empty Arms!Garrett, you are such a punching bag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Arms for Broken Hearts

The door closed behind Bethany and Garrett leaned his forehead against it for a long, weary moment, eyes closed. The ghost of his mother seemed very close, murmuring something soothing, something as warmly hopeful as she used to do. He could almost hear her ...

But she was gone. And his father was gone and his brother and Bethany, for all the short sweetness of her presence in the horrors that they had faced at Corypheus's prison, was gone as well, walking with her Templar escort back to the Gallows.

"Love?"

He turned, slowly, painfully, and went back into the hall.

Anders was halfway down the stairs in his shirtsleeves, hair still wet from the bath and curling every so slightly on either side of his face. His face was pale and worried. "Is Bethany gone already?"

Garrett nodded.

"Bastards can't give her even a night in her family home," said Anders with less heat than sad resignation.

Garrett climbed the stairs until he was on the step below Anders and put his face into the other man's chest. "Can we go to bed?"

"Come on," said Anders, took him by the hand, and towed him to the bedroom.

He was bone-tired, mind, body and soul, but when Anders closed the door behind them, he reached out, took Anders's face in his hands, and pulled him into a kiss. "Please," he said into Anders's lips. "Please."

Anders let out a sound, half-sigh, half-groan, and swayed forward, molding their bodies together. "Love, yes," he said between kisses. "Always."

Garrett caught his breath on a sob and pushed Anders onto the bed, pinning him there, pulling at his clothing. Damp blond hair spilled across the pillows. Pale skin over lean muscle and long, angular bones. He knew this body, knew it so well, every freckle and scar, every sweet spot. He bit Anders in the crook of his shoulder and neck, ungently, and felt the upward surge in response.

"Please." It was Anders's turn to beg, to tug at Garrett's clothing. They wrestled, briefly, and then fell into the sheets again, naked. Anders tried to slide downward. "Let me ..."

"No," said Garrett. "I need - your face, I need to see ..."

Anders wrapped his fingers around Garrett's hand and summoned grease. Hitched one leg up against Garrett's hip. Tipped his pelvis upward. Their cocks slid together, hot and needy. When Garrett breached his tight, smooth ring of muscle with his index finger, Anders closed his eyes and tilted his head back, his beautiful mouth opening.

Maker, how many times had they done this dance? Anders's trust and surrender, his glorious abandon, discoveries that never grew old. He crooked his fingers, watching the sensations chasing across Anders's face, leaning into him, breathless and hungry and amazed, all over again.

"Garrett," Anders's voice was strangled. "I - you - fuck!"

Garrett pulled his fingers out, pressed the head of his cock against the twitching flesh, and pushed in, slowly. They'd been weeks on the road, no opportunities for privacy, and Anders was tight as a vise. "Maker," he said. "Is this - Anders, tell me if -"

"Don't stop," said Anders. "Uhn. Fucking _Void_."

Garrett sunk to the hilt and paused, gasping. He shifted, spreading his knees and gathering Anders's raised leg against his chest. "Touch yourself," he said. "I want ... watch me. Let me see your eyes."

Anders opened his eyes and took himself in hand. "Garrett," he said, drawing his long elegant fingers up the length of his cock and back down again. "Ah, Maker, Garrett."

Garrett hunched his shoulders, slid his free hand under Anders's hips, and began to rock, little shallow thrusts, timing it to the movement of Anders's hand. Anders put his other hand above his head and gripped the headboard, all the muscles in his arm tensing, knotting beneath the skin. Garrett kissed his knee and deepened the thrusts.

Anders arched up from the bed, spread his legs wider, sped his hand. Abruptly they were rutting, hard and furious. A scarlet flush spread across Anders's chest. Garrett felt his orgasm build.

"Come," he pleaded. "Come, Anders, come for me, now, now ..."

"Ga-arrett, I'm - fuck!" Pearly ropes spurted from Anders's fist, decorating his chest and belly. He drew it out a little, moaning, milking his cock, his glazed eyes still fixed on Garrett's.

"Mine," said Garrett, swept with a sudden, fierce possessiveness. He bore down on Anders, fingers clamping on one pale hip, fucking Anders harder than he'd ever let himself before, desperate and wild. Anders cried out, hands scrabbling at the bedsheets for purchase. "Mine," Garrett said, over and over. "Mine, be mine, Anders."

"Yours, yours," Anders gasped. "What, uh! Oh, fucking An _dra_ ste." He tucked his legs up, bending nearly double, giving himself over.

When Garrett came, it was like a flood of fire and ice, swirling through him, scouring him. He let out a rending cry, every muscle snapping tight and then releasing. It left him empty and wrung out and hollow. He slumped onto Anders, his face in the other man's neck.

It was a lie. Anders was not his. Too many other claimants had been there first, and Anders bore their mark still, in his soul, his body, his very blood.

"Love," said Anders, very gently. "Shhhh ..."

Garrett drew in a shuddering breath and only then realized that he was weeping. "Oh, fuck the Bride," he muttered damply into Anders's skin.

"I'd ask what the matter was, but we're really spoiled for choice, aren't we?"

"You never lied to me," said Garrett and feels Anders go still. "You never promised me forever. But I promised it to you. And you let me."

"No one gets forever," said Anders, his voice rough.

"How long do you have?"

"I don't know," said Anders. "Perhaps twenty years."

Garrett squeezed his eyes shut, clutched Anders's shoulders. Then pushed upward and looked down at Anders. Tears glittered in Anders's blond eyelashes. "Promise me twenty years," Garrett said.

"I can't." Pain twisted Anders's face and the tears ran down into his hair.

"Maker damn you," said Garrett. He thrust forward a little, seating his slow-softening cock into Anders again. Anders gasped. "Promise me something, Anders. I can't ... I can't lose you! I _can't_ , I ... please ..." He sobbed, ashamed and broken.

Anders reached up, took him by the hair, and dragged him down, wrapping arms and legs around him. "Love, love," he mourned against Garrett's head. "Shhh, hush. Everything I have, everything I can, it's yours. I'm so sorry."

Garrett put his hands to his face and cried like a child. And, like a child, fell asleep with the tears still on his cheeks.

When he woke, Anders was still there, arms still around him. It was enough. It had to be.


End file.
